


"But You said..."

by Jaybeefoxy



Series: Flufftober Prompts 2020 [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Do Not Translate, Fluff, Flufftober, Flufftober 2020, M/M, Mystrade fluff, One-Shot, You do not have permission to post to another site, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26824531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: Greg's had a terrible day and Mycroft does something nice
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Flufftober Prompts 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950532
Comments: 4
Kudos: 99





	"But You said..."

**Author's Note:**

> Day three of Flufftober prompts

Greg was in a foul mood. Nobody was answering their phones, all the leads for his latest case were dead ends, and his sources of information had seemingly all dried up, and to cap it all, his computer had finally decided to die on him. He stared at the blue screen of death and wondered how his life had come to this.

“IT support, Zeek is speakin’ to ya, what problem can I solve for you today?”

“Hello...Zeek,” Greg began, momentarily thrown by the up-beat reply. “DI Lestrade, Serious Crimes. My computer’s dead.”

“Okay,” the young man said, “was it murder or natural causes?” 

Greg paused, chuckled at the joke, and leaned back in his chair. “Well, I’m thinking natural causes, because this thing is ancient. However, you can’t be too careful. If I had a working computer, I might be able to investigate further. As it is, all I have is a blue screen, and I’m in the middle of an investigation that might go pear-shaped if I don’t get my computer back soon. So, how can you help me, Zeek?”

Greg put the phone down minutes later, absolutely none the wiser about what was wrong. The young man (who was probably less than half his age) talked in a language Greg barely understood about how most of the computers in this place were in need of a serious overhaul and they should be looking at cores and SSD drives and other things Greg had no clue about. "Look, mate, you could be talking about reversing the polarity of the neutron flow, for all it makes sense to me. Just...I dunno, get up here and work your magic. I've got a case to solve. I need access to Crimint and all I'm seeing is a lovely shade of blue." Add to that the fact that nobody was free to sort it for at least another hour (apparently IT was occupied in updating some network or other), and Greg found himself reverting to good old-fashioned paper and pen. 

The coffee he went to make himself was frankly terrible and made worse by the fact they'd run out of sugar, and Tracy, their Admin, was refusing to go get any because it was throwing it down. Greg sighed, not sure he could blame her. He finally sent someone down to beg some from the canteen. The foul weather was echoing his mood and the house-to-house was also coming up with a big fat zero and a lot of damp and irritable coppers. He stared out of his window across the rain soaked rooftops backed by the dreary grey sky and wondered what else could go wrong.

Home was a welcome respite, made better by the smell of something savory floating to his nose. Mycroft was cooking. That was…unprecedented, actually. 

"Mycroft?"

"In here," his husband called from their kitchen. "Food is nearly ready. Go wash up, while I plate it up."

When Greg came into the dining room after replacing his suit with jeans and a soft and well-worn long-sleeved t-shirt, Mycroft was already at a table that had been laid with a snowy white cloth, burgundy napkins, and silver cutlery that reflected the light from the solitary candle in the table’s center. 

“Now I feel underdressed,” Greg murmured, smiling. Mycroft was in his customary three piece, albeit with sleeves rolled up and jacket off. 

“Nonsense, Gregory, this is home, and while I sought to make things a little bit special, I in no way wanted to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Thanks, love, this is...lovely, truly.”

"You've had problems at work, I take it?"

Greg smiled. "Understatement. Nothing went right today. Everything either broke down, got wet, ran out, got lost, or came up empty, and all of it out of my control. Not the best of days, I have to admit."

"Sit, eat, and relax," Mycroft urged. “I attempted your favourite. Steak, potatoes and cauliflower cheese.” 

"You cooked?" His husband hummed an affirmative. " **But you said** to me that you don't cook. So…?"

"No, I don't, usually. That does not mean I cannot. I just choose not to, as a rule. I do not find it as...relaxing as you do. However, you sounded somewhat defeated when you called to tell me you were on your way. I wanted to make the effort, for you."

Greg's smile lit his face. "That is the single bestest thing anyone has ever done for me."

" _Bestest_?" Mycroft looked faintly scandalised. "Seriously, Gregory, you are not six. Your use of the English language should not include words like _bestest_ and _humongous…_ "

“After a day like today, I really don’t care,” Greg said, grinning. “I would have said _bestest_ was better than _crap, shit, or bollocks_ , any day, no?”

"Those are just two of the... _epithets_ you favour. You use rather a lot of them.”

"But those words are the best," Greg complained. "Besides, you're right, I'm not six. I'm an adult, so I'm allowed to use any words I want to, and this? This is… _fantabulous_!" Mycroft chuckled, unable to resist his husband’s humour. He could not maintain a serious expression in the face of Gregory’s teasing. "You're a powerful man, Mycroft. Why not get those words added to the dictionary?" 

"I think you'll find all of them are," Mycroft said. "Unfortunately. Perhaps I should exercise my influence to get them erased, _permanently_."

“Aw, don’t be a spoilsport,” Greg said. “If Shakespeare could invent words, then anybody should be able to. Besides, it’s fun.” Greg's smile broadened, and he dug into the excellent offering that Mycroft had provided. “Did you not like Mary Poppins when you were a kid?” he asked.

“Are you joking? I spent my formative years wishing someone like that would replace the nanny we were landed with.”

“There you go then. You can’t ignore _supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,_ now can you? One of the best words ever.”

“I suppose,” Mycroft said, with a sigh, “that any moment now you are going to tell me that this food is _scrumdiddlyumptious_?”

“And I would be right too,” Greg said firmly. “For someone who doesn’t cook, this is wonderful. Thanks, Myc. You’ve managed to turn this day around for me. Nothing seems bad when you can tuck into dinner that someone else made for you.”

Mycroft tried not to preen at the compliment, and failed. He set to eating his own portion, convinced that if this was the result, he should perhaps cook dinner more often. 


End file.
